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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29985906">like those foreign stars</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/pedrosmustache/pseuds/pedrosmustache'>pedrosmustache</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Great Wall (2017)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Rough Sex</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 17:55:39</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,843</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29985906</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/pedrosmustache/pseuds/pedrosmustache</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>it’s the only thing that keeps you going: perhaps somewhere, he is beneath the same stars as you.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Pero Tovar/Reader, Pero Tovar/You</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>21</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>like those foreign stars</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>you suppose, in a convoluted sort of way, you hate your husband.</p><p>in the depths of your heart and soul you know you love him, that his strength and dignity and honor you cannot live without. since becoming his wife, he has brought peace to your otherwise turbulent mind and steadied you with his guiding hand. he is a good man, a strong warrior, a gentle husband beneath a rough exterior.</p><p>none of the good, however, changes the fact that he makes it entirely too easy to hate him.</p><p>of course, it’s not exactly his fault. selling his sword to the highest bidder takes him hither and yon, and he is ever subject to the capricious whims of those who hire him. you knew this would be the case when you took his name and took his bed. he’d told you from the outset he would leave you for long periods of time. he made no effort to convince you otherwise. in fact, he’d attempted to dissuade you of marrying him, claiming he could not be the consistent husband you so deserved. you’d told him poppycock and married him anyway. </p><p>but with his limited education, he is not able to bless you with a letter during his time away. he’d warned you of this, as well. he’d told you that you would simply have to grow used to waiting and wondering: waiting for him to return, wondering <em>if </em>he would return.</p><p>one year you’ve had his name; one year you’ve been his wife. you’ve only had him by your side as a husband for three full moons. the rest of your time as his bride has been without him as provider, lover, and friend. </p><p>in all truth, absence does not make the heart grow fonder. it makes the heart grow weary and wretched.</p><p>you rise early each morning and begin your day with careful consideration and practiced patience. before your feet even touch the hard-packed earth of the floor, you must tamp down your spirits, keep them from growing too hopeful. each day is a battle between the half of your heart yearning for your husband’s return and praying for his safety, and the half of your mind convinced of his demise and your ultimate ruin. </p><p>you must convince yourself that it is far more likely pero will return wrapped in funerary cloth than sat astride his faithful steed. you cannot live each day with your heart in your throat and your eyes checking each corner on the unlikely chance that he has returned. you have lived that way far too long, and it has only brought you great anxiety and heartache. living your life as if your husband has gone off and died? at least then you can stop looking for him. </p><p>with pero gone, it is up to you to maintain the household duties as well as the household funds. you make ends meet whatever way you can, mostly through mending and rudimentary healing work. as your parents have long since passed and with your sole brother existing as a good-for-nothing wastrel, there is no family in the area for you to rely on should you need assistance. it is you and you alone left with the burden of living. </p><p>you have friends—precious few, but friends enough. your closest friend, sybil, though slightly younger than yourself, offers great comfort on your lowest of days. a widow herself, she seems to understand, to take your pain as her own, and mourn with you for the life you had once hoped to live. </p><p>yet she reminds you not to lose hope entirely. until you have received written word or seen pero’s dead body for yourself, there is always a glimmer of hope. </p><p>you can only pray to any god who might listen that she is right.</p><p>autumn fades to winter, and with the change of season, so too does your heart begin to freeze. you cannot help it. the resentment—it had always been lurking in the shadows, but once you wake to a frigid bed, your toes numb and body shivering, the pain of pero’s absence grows all too strong for you to ignore any longer. </p><p>still, you push through. only this time, rather than hoping for him to return, you <em>dare </em>him to return. let him come and see what he has made you: a woman not a widow yet not a wife; a woman autonomous in her own right yet scorned for her self-reliance; a woman sick to death of loneliness yet unwilling to move on for the slightest chance that beloved might return. </p><p>he was right, you think. perhaps you shouldn’t have married him. though your three months of matrimony were the most bliss filled days of your life, you aren’t sure you would follow him to the altar again had you known what heartache lie around the bend. </p><p>one wintry morning, you bundle yourself with an extra scarf and make the trek from your cottage to the village center. it is market day, despite the swirling weather. you have things to sell: baked goods, a quilt you finished in the week past, a mended shirt of pero’s you found buried within a chest. as soon as the first snow falls, market days will cease, as will your income. you must squirrel away what you can in the time you have left, and if that means selling off your husband’s few belongings in order to purchase more for your larder, so be it. </p><p>you find sybil unloading her wares on an overturned barrel. your breath crystalizes in the air as you greet her.</p><p>“good morning,” you say softly, draping the quilt over your own overturned crate. steam rises from the freshly baked bread you organize amongst the other bits-and-bobs you’ve collected for this morning’s sale. you shove your hands in your apron pockets to keep from warming your fingers over the bread loaves. “hopefully this chill will not drive people away.”</p><p>sybil nods in agreement as she straightens. she runs her palm over an embroidered handkerchief folded on her barrel, lip tucked between her teeth. you do not mistake the fine sheen of tears over her eyes, and your own chest tightens as you glance at your wares. though you have no particular attachment to what you must sell today, your stomach twists with something akin to shame. in the wake of pero’s leaving, you survive hand-to-mouth, and if the assortment of relative <em>rubbish </em>on your crate is any indication, you are far from pulling yourself away from the precipice of ruin. </p><p>your cheeks warm with embarrassment. the urge to cry rises in your throat, but you swallow past the lump and lift your shoulders. your mother—god rest her soul—would expect better of you; she would expect you to muddle through as you have done until now. </p><p>perhaps, once winter thaws, you might find consistent employment with the village midwife. perhaps you might remarry, find safety and comfort in the home of another…</p><p>an errant tear slips down your cheek at the thought. you wear pero’s name as a badge of honor, yet you cannot continue without him much longer for fear you will waste away. he would want you to be safe, wouldn’t he? surely he would not begrudge you doing what you must to survive. </p><p>you shake your head free of such musings. until you know for certain, you will cling to the hope that your husband lives. </p><p>the morning progresses as most market days do. business is not steady, but it is not lacking either. you sell your baked goods before they cool beneath the winter wind, and you part with pero’s tunic only after the buyer offers to pay a shilling more than your asking price. you resist the urge to bring the cloth to your nose before handing if off, just to see if his scent still lingers in the woven fabric. before you can crumble, you shove the tunic in the buyer’s waiting hand in exchange for the few shillings. </p><p>by midmorning, the first snow begins to fall, the sky turned gray and bloated with clouds. though the flurries resemble a dusting of flour more than a blizzard, the temperature has dropped enough to put a creak in your bones. you slip your day’s earnings—heftier than normal considering pero’s tunic—and fold the remaining thick quilt over your arm.</p><p>“you should purchase what you can before you go home.” sybil’s low voice breaks through your thoughts, and you turn to see her lift an empty wicker basket from the ground. “john says the snow is bound to continue over the night and into the morrow. i don’t want you getting stuck without enough to eat.”</p><p>you smile at sybil’s motherly heart while ignoring the twinge of jealously in your chest. </p><p>john—sybil’s recent paramour. a fine man in all respects, one willing to court a widow despite the objection of many. it pains you to admit the unnatural hatred you feel toward the man. he has done naught to harm you, yet he is a reminder of what—<em>who</em>—had once been yours. even if pero had not been overly affectionate, you know he harbored the same love for you that john harbors for sybil, and it makes you ill to watch sybil acquire the happiness and love you so desperately desire.</p><p>sybil extends the basket. “take this,” she continues. “and these.” she tucks a few silver coins in your gloved palm, curling your exposed fingers against the metal. </p><p>“no, sybil, no.” you shake your head and try to return the gift, but she steps away from your proffered hand. “i can’t take this. it’s yours.”</p><p>she busies herself with gathering the leftovers of her sale. “you know you need it more than i do.” she glances over her shoulder with a pity-filled pinch in her brow. “with john now…” she trails off, though the implication of her unspoken words hang in the air like her frosted breath.</p><p>you look at the coins in your palm, feel a surge of shame and loathing and resentment. “yes… with john…” you whisper, tightening your fist around the gift. </p><p>sybil catches your arm before you can turn and leave. “promise me you will come and visit once the storm has passed? i don’t like thinking of you alone in that cottage on the hill.”</p><p>“of course,” you say, though you sound clipped, agitated by the weather and the weight of sybil’s gift in your hand. you sigh, dropping your head. “forgive me.”</p><p>“hey.” with a soft word and a gentle finger beneath your chin, sybil lifts your head. “there is nothing to forgive. i know your struggle, and every day i pray the good lord returns your mate.”</p><p>a sharp wind whips through your shawl, and sybil visibly shivers. she nods her head toward the rows of stalls across the dirt path. a few of the shopkeepers have begun to pack up their wares, much like you. you only have a handful of moments before market days will cease for the winter, so you mustn’t tarry.</p><p>“go on,” sybil urges. “come down the hill once the storm has settled, and i will give you a bowl of your favorite stew, the one i won’t give you the recipe for.”</p><p>knowing you won’t see sybil for some time, knowing you won’t see <em>anyone </em>for some time, you crush your friend against your chest and murmur your thanks in the wool of her scarf. it itches against your nose, but the irritant keeps your tears at bay. you can’t cry when you’re concentrating on not sneezing.</p><p>she pushes you away first, moisture gathered in her own eyes. she points to the rapidly closing stalls. “go! go on!” with a final wave, she turns her back and scurries into the increasing snowstorm.</p><p>you make quick work of the what stalls remain open. by the time you gather your skirts in one hand and sybil’s full basket in the other, a fine layer of snow rests on your shoulders and in your hair. you blink away stray flakes and dip your head as you begin the journey home.</p><p>salted fish, yams, potatoes, a few onions, and hickory nuts weigh down your basket. it will all add nicely to your larder and keep you full for perhaps another fortnight. to keep your mind off the increasing cold, you recount the items you have stored away for the winter. there’s barley, ale, some sausages, and—</p><p>you stop short as you crest the hill leading to your cottage.</p><p>something is not right.</p><p>pero long ago insisted you reside tucked away from the village. shortly before the wedding, he’d found an abandoned cottage on a hillside not far from the village’s center, but distant enough that he felt he did not need to worry for your safety when he inevitably left home. of course, you’d reminded him that it is possible for thieves or intruders or ne’er-do-wells to simply <em>walk </em>from the village to your house, but he told you he would sleep better at night knowing there would be some distance between you and everyone else. to this day, you do not understand his logic, but you have made the cottage your home—and you know when something is not right.</p><p>smoke rises from the chimney above the thatched roof, and the warm glow of candlelight from the single window pierces the gray haze of the storm. you did not leave the cottage this way; someone has entered and made themselves at home in your absence.</p><p>swallowing hard, you ignore the sudden rush of anxiety to your chest. you inch forward. the basket in your hand slides to rest in the crook of your elbow, and you push one of your skirts aside to root for the short dagger sheathed on your person at all times. you find the worn, leather handle and slide the weapon from its pouch, gripping it tightly in your palm.</p><p>the scent of warm bread and something vaguely familiar slips through the parted front door. you tilt your ear, holding your breath as you listen. you can hear rustling on the other side, like the sound of someone pacing. a heavy object hits the floor; you will yourself not to gasp. you taste blood against your tongue, and you rub the spot on your lower lip where you pierced skin. </p><p>in one fluid motion, you lift the dagger in your hand and kick the door open with your foot, screeching like a banshee as you enter your home. so fueled by fear and anxiety are you, your eyes do not register the hulking man sitting at your table. you drop your basket, hardly noticing the onion that falls and rolls away, and rush around the table, launching against the intruder like a barnacle to the bottom of a rowboat.</p><p>you do not stab the intruder, but you hit his broad shoulders with the hilt of your dagger. your blows seem worthless, though, as the intruder simply rises to his feet and shakes you off. he grabs your wrist, immobilizing your weapon, as he glowers down at you.</p><p>“hold still, wife!” he growls. “before you hurt us both!”</p><p>you freeze at his words, your fear-clouded vision parting like the sun through rainclouds. the dagger in your hand clatters to the floor as you take in your husband—your pero—stood before you as solid and real and tangible as the day you married him. this time, you allow yourself to gasp.</p><p>“pero?” you squeak.</p><p>“do you not recognize your husband after so long apart, <em>hermosa</em>?”</p><p>you take him in. he looks much the same, perhaps a little weather worn, but still handsome as ever. you lift your hand to the scar dividing his eyebrow; the marred skin is smooth beneath your fingertips. you do not miss the way his head tilts ever so slightly toward your palm, but you remove your hand before he has the chance to find comfort in your touch.</p><p>seeing him now, stood before a roaring fire in the hearth, a fresh roll of bread on the table, the resentment you’d woken with that morning flares in your stomach. you’ve dreamed of this moment for so long yet you did not realize you would feel such—such hatred at being reunited with your long-lost love. rage clouds your vision once more.</p><p>you give his shoulder a pitiful shove. he grunts, but you surmise he moves to clutch his offended arm more out of shock than pain. the leather of his outer-coat is a good barrier between your hand and his skin, and you rue the fact that you more than likely did not give him so much as a welt.</p><p>“what is this, wife?” he sputters. “your husband returns from the continent, and you meet him with abuse rather than open arms and open legs?”</p><p>“fuck off, pero!”</p><p>you step out from under his stare, unsure you can trust yourself to think clearly with him so close and so real. after all this time, he still makes your blood pump with excitement and need, but you want to collect your thoughts, your emotions, before allowing him to lay a finger upon your body or a gentle word upon your tattered heart.</p><p>pero’s brow puckers in a frown. “are you not pleased i’ve come home?”</p><p>you brace your hands against the table, ducking your head between your shoulders. his words—spoken softly and in earnest—needle your resolve, but you hold firm. “in all truth, i thought you dead,” you say, tracing the patterns of the handcrafted wood with your gaze. “you told me you would be gone a month, perhaps two. it has been eight months with nary a word whether you live and breathe or are dead beneath the ground a thousand miles away.”</p><p>“ah.” he steps toward the hearth, and the orange flames flicker along the shadows of his face. bracing a fist against the mantle, he stares into the fire, murmuring, “so, you have grown more used to your own hand than my cock.”</p><p>at this, your head snaps up so fast you feel your bones crack. pero’s face remains unreadable, despite the waves of light caressing his features. “how dare you! that is not the reason for my frustration.”</p><p>he swiftly changes the subject, stepping away from the fire to nod to the larder. “i took stock,” he says. “you’ve done well for yourself.”</p><p>“yes, i have—no thanks to you.”</p><p>his steps are slow, calculated, as he rounds the table. you watch his languid movements, the ire in your stomach heightening to a boil. he flicks the ragged cloth separating the larder from the one-room cottage to the side and sniffs roughly. seemingly satisfied, he turns to face you. he tilts his head back, exposing his long, tan neck. your eyes drop to the expanse of skin, and you swallow. you forgot how good he looks in the firelight…</p><p>the shawl around your neck suddenly feels hot. you tear it away and toss it to the side, palming a hand through your hair. you drop your arms to clench your hands to fists. you will away the lust—the untamable desire—creeping along the back of your mind.</p><p>“you are much more of a nag than i remember.”</p><p>you lift a brow. “you are much… smaller than i remember.”</p><p>in one long stride, pero is across the room.</p><p>he grabs your chin with one hand and reaches for your wrist with the other. you grit your teeth, but hold his stare.</p><p>pero tovar might look a fright, but he is no beast. you will not cower before him. instead, he should tremble before you.</p><p>pero presses your open palm against the front flap of his trousers, digging his half-hard cock into your hand. “does that feel small to you, <em>hermosa</em>?” he growls. “surely, three of your fingers are not half the width of my cock. i shudder to think how you might break now that you prefer your hand to—”</p><p>wheedling your hand from his vice-like grip, you wind your arms around his neck and draw his neck forward. before he can kiss you, you nuzzle your nose against his and sigh, “shut up and fuck me, you bastard.”</p><p>pero’s fingers on your chin soften. “gladly.”</p><p>unlike his hold on your chin, his mouth on yours is rough. your lips tumble together, and his tongue fumbles along yours. you’re out of practice—both of you. months on end of bringing yourself to pleasure coupled with the sudden frenzy in your bones makes you hasty and artless, but you don’t care. not when you’ve dreamt of this moment for the better part of a year. it’s all you can do to not tear pero limb from limb in your frantic need to feel every inch of him here and now.</p><p>you bite too hard on pero’s lower lip, and he hisses, drawing away long enough to pinch the flesh of your hip. “ack,” he mutters. “careful, <em>querida</em>. you don’t know what you’re asking for.”</p><p>you shake your head, gripping his shoulders as your toes skim the floor in the effort it takes to fully slot your mouth over his. though your eyes remain closed, you feel his gaze scan your face, your parted lips, heaving chest, exposed neck. your core tightens under his watchful eyes.</p><p>“i want it,” you whisper. “i want you. <em>please.</em>”</p><p>pero doesn’t ask twice.</p><p>gripping your wrist once more, he spins you around so your arm is caught behind your back and your ass presses against the firm tent of his trousers. he pauses long enough to grind against you, to let you feel his desire, a low snarl in his throat. your eyes snap open, and you all but whine when he pushes you forward to bend you over the table. the wood is cool against your hot cheek, and the sound of clothes rustling behind you—pero shucking his shirt from his trousers and undoing the belt around his waist—has you squeezing your legs together in anticipation.</p><p><em>fuck, </em>you missed him. you missed this.</p><p>he releases his tight hold on your wrist, and, to speed the process along, you pull your skirts over your ass, baring yourself to him. you press your palm beside your head and lift your chin, biting out, “hurry up,” just as he releases his cock from his trousers. you nearly keen at the sight of him thick and hard and <em>all for you.</em></p><p>pero smirks, proud, as he takes in the glazed, heady took on your face. “what was that, <em>querida</em>?” he asks, pumping himself in his fist before holding your hips once more and—</p><p>the air in your lungs stills when he pushes into your core with one fast thrust. stars—delicious, warm, rigid stars circle behind your eyes. you drop your forehead to the table on a deep moan as you catch your breath.</p><p>“oh sweet heaven.”</p><p>he retreats then thrusts full force into you again. the table squeaks as it slides against the floor. your core throbs with need even as pero’s hips slam against yours, but you can feel it already, the slow simmer of ecstasy in your belly. you cling to the feeling, to the sound of his flesh on your flesh, of his hand in the middle of your spine, of his cock in your cunt, of him being home.</p><p>his hand moves, and you blink your eyes open. “pero…” you mean it as a searching question, unsure of where his hand may travel, but the sound comes out in a pitiful, lust-soaked whine.</p><p>pero only responds by grabbing a fistful of your hair and tightening his hold. the pain of his grip on your head mixes with the pleasure coursing through your body as he continues to fuck you deeply. you could leave it, let the combined effects drive you over the edge faster.</p><p>but you’ll be damned if you let pero win that easy.</p><p>grunting, you plant your feet firm on the floor and jerk your head out of his grasp. your movement catches pero by surprise, and he is forced to release your hair as he topples. his fist slams against the table, his body weight surging forward, driving his cock even deeper as he collapses over you in the sudden tilt of his center of gravity.</p><p>“shit!” he stutters in your ear.</p><p>the table gives, snapping in two under the heavy weight of two persons engaged in frantic fucking on such pliable pine.</p><p>you would shout a warning as you fall to ground, but pero’s hold around your waist is firm. he will not let you fall. he hoists you even as you both collapse, your ass against his thighs when you do connect to the ground. one arm around your chest, the other sneaking closer to your clit, you lean your head against his shoulder. moisture springs to your eyes when one long finger brushes the tight bundle of nerves at your center.</p><p>“pero,” you breathe, uncertain if you can keep the tears at bay much longer. it’s all catching up to you now—the relief of his well-being, the joy of his return. oh, how you’d missed your husband.</p><p>“go on,” he grits. “go on.”</p><p>it’s all the permission you need.</p><p>you shatter around his length, lurching forward to your forearms as you come with a strangled cry. pero had once spoken of fire that sparkles in the sky, something he’d seen in the far east, something bright with color and vibrancy and tingling energy. you feel that same fire in your core as you gasp against the floor.</p><p>perhaps a bit petulantly too, you think it serves pero right that he doesn’t make it back to your cunt in time to release his load within your walls. with a few snaps of skin, he moans as he paints your ass with his hot seed. you smirk against your arm.</p><p>and you find you can breathe comfortably for the first time in months.</p><p>adjusting your skirts, you roll to your side, head propped on your elbow. pero, still on his knees, breathes heavily, his mouth open as he stares at you. his tongue dips out to wet his dry lips, and you smile through the haze settling over your body.</p><p>he smiles back.</p><p>for a moment, you stare at one another, silence reigning in the space where words do not suffice. an overwhelming feeling of love drenches you from head to foot, and you are giddy again, caught up in the newness of marriage and love-making and bliss.</p><p>“i’ll get you something to eat,” you finally say, dragging yourself from the floor. your legs wobble beneath you, unsteady partners after such a phrenetic connection. a wet patch on the curve of your ass develops through your dress, and you glance over your shoulder to look at it when pero laughs. you cluck your tongue. “don’t laugh at me. it’s not my fault you couldn’t aim better!”</p><p>pero huffs as he tucks his softened length back in his trousers and climbs from the floor. “maybe i just like to cover you on the outside too, <em>querida</em>. i may not be a farmer, but even i know there’s more than one place to plant a seed.” he frowns as he kicks one half of the ruined table with his boot. “i should have built this better. we’ll have to test the next one i build. it should be able to withstand a good fucking.”</p><p>you bustle out from the larder, a bowl in one hand and a knife in the other. you pass pero the knife then squat before the hearth. a cast iron pot hangs over the fire, simmering with the stew you had prepared this morning, the one you had planned to eat by your lonesome. before you ladle a portion out for pero, you glance to the side—just to make sure.</p><p>he catches you staring as he turns from slicing the loaf of bread. he smirks. “like my ass, do you?”</p><p>there’s enough maiden shame still engrained in your mind that you feel heat rush to your cheeks. you shake your head and say, “i thought i might be dreaming.”</p><p>pero stills. his chest rises, falls, as he breathes slowly. “you and i both.”</p><p>blinking away the sudden rush of tears to your eyes, you busy yourself with spooning pero’s stew into a bowl and passing him the meal. his fingertips brush yours, but you avoid his gaze, sure you will collapse in relief once you meet his eyes now that the initial shock of his homecoming has worn away.</p><p>mouth full of stew, pero points to the empty space beside you. “what happened to the other chair?”</p><p>you give him a rueful smile as you shrug. “firewood.”</p><p>his brows tighten in a frown, and the bowl in his hand lowers to his lap. he considers the empty space with a glare then twists to run his gaze from the broken table to the larder and back to you, kneeling beside the warmth of the fire. he jerks his head, bidding you come closer.</p><p>“come here<em>.</em>” his voice is soft, a gentle caress. it is easy to give in; you cannot resist him any longer.</p><p>you scoot across the floor to rest your head against his thigh, releasing a heavy breath at the feeling of his fingers descending to play with strands of your hair. he smells suspiciously clean, even after such a long time away. you wonder when he arrived home. it must have been when you were in the village. perhaps he had time to bathe while he waited for you to come back. or maybe he—</p><p>he says your name, and you tilt your head back to look at him. there’s an amused glint in his eye, though you aren’t sure what he finds humorous. “hmm?”</p><p>“i meant come <em>here.</em>” he pats his lap, and you tuck your lower lip between your teeth as you stand. he keeps a tight hold of your hand, guiding you as you perch yourself on his leg and fit the crown of your head beneath his chin. one arm comes to wrap around your back and settle on your hip, the other resuming his meal. “there,” he whispers. “that’s better.”</p><p>you nod against the side of his neck. he smells of sandalwood and sex and something distinctly pero. your heart lurches, and a hot tear slides down your cheek.</p><p>“i did not know if you would return,” you confess abruptly.</p><p>pero sighs, and his chest expands with the sound. “neither did i.” he sets aside the empty bowl. “but i was determined to leave the skirmish with my heart still beating. whatever else happened, if i could still feel the thump of my heart in my chest, it meant i could return to you.”</p><p>“where did you go?”</p><p>“does it matter?” he free hand lifts to toy with one of the strings holding your bodice closed. “i am home now.”</p><p>you pull back far enough to catch his eye. “it matters. if you must leave me, i want to know where it is you’ve gone.”</p><p>he looks toward the fire, and a shadow lowers over his brow. that shadow holds memories, you know, dark and violent ones. you will not push him to tell his story, not until he is ready. yet you cannot silence the part of your heart that is desperate to know what befell your husband for all those months you lie beneath the same stars, worlds apart.</p><p>after a moment, he says, “i am not sure exactly where i was. some men called it saxony, others bavaria. i’m not sure if anyone knew where we were. but i did my duty, collected my pay, and that’s all that matters.”</p><p>his words hang in the air, and you feel the painful, hideous memories swirling about in his head. after all, you are one flesh. his pain is your pain, and sitting with him now, it is as if you fought the fight alongside him.  </p><p>swallowing past the lump in your throat, you force yourself to speak, even if it means your words will tremble with emotion. “i don’t want you to go again.”</p><p>pero turns his head sharply, his eyes hard. you bite your tongue, but do not look away.</p><p>“stay with me,” you continue. “put your sword down and stay with me.”</p><p>he stiffens beneath you, but does not push you away. “selling my sword is all i have known for too many years to count, wife. i can be nothing else.”</p><p>“that is where you are wrong.” before pero can look away once more, you hold his cheek in the palm of your hand, brushing your thumb along the stubble of his jaw. “you are a husband to me, king of your own household. is that not enough?”</p><p>brown eyes flick back and forth between yours. you hold your breath, steeling yourself for his rejection, for his committal to the ways of his youth.</p><p>instead, he presses his forehead against yours, and his eyes flutter shut as he groans. it is the sound of a weight sliding from his shoulders and melting against the floor. it is the sound of his sword bending to the form of a plowshare. it is the sound of your husband coming home.</p><p>“it is enough,” pero whispers, his voice thick. “it is enough.”</p><p>choking on a relieved sob, you move your head so that you can capture his lips with yours. you kiss him in earnest, tightening your hold on his face with both hands as you meld your mouth against his. he tastes of warm stew, and it is the sweetest thing you have ever felt grace your tongue. tears salt the corners of your mouth, and you laugh into the kiss, pulling away so you can rub the backs of your hands along your cheeks.</p><p>pero snorts in amusement. “do not tell me you cry in despair? i thought you wanted me to stay.”</p><p>“i do!” laughing still, you shake your head in protest. “i do!”</p><p>he grunts something in his native tongue as he stands, returning his mouth to yours. you are quick to twine your legs around his waist and your arms around his neck as he shuffles to the mattress in the corner. his body is firm against yours, and it takes every ounce of self-control you have to not rub your center along his hips.</p><p>time for that will come later. for now, you revel in the touch of his mouth and tongue and breath on your skin.</p><p>he lowers you to the mattress gently, in stark contrast to the rough way he handled you mere moments before. the change in pace delights you, and you are happy to know you have a husband willing to pleasure you in more ways than one. you have heard tales of the girls who went to their marriage bed and found their husband only willing to mount them like a stallion mounts a mare, and while pero has certainly made use of that certain position, it is a thrill to look him in the eye as he carefully undoes the stays of your bodice. his gaze is dark with lust and love, and you sigh in bliss as he pulls down your loosened sleeve, baring your shoulder and breast. he lowers his head and marks your shoulder, the swell of your breast, your nipple with his mouth, and you thread your fingers through his hair.</p><p>slowly, you undress one another, pero on his knees, you dwarfed by his bulk where you sit. the firelight and anticipation makes everything warm and right despite the swirling snow outside and frigid cold of the mattress beneath you. you skim your hands along pero’s chest when his linen tunic drops to the ground with a muffled thud. there are new scars on his chest, mostly around his ribcage. you frown, press your fingers to the slick skin, before leaning forward and flicking your tongue against the marred flesh. he allows you a moment to toy with his skin, your palms wandering to his back, pushing him nearer to your mouth, but then he tires, firmly grasping your chin in his hands so he can duck down and kiss you once more.</p><p>you fall to your back on the mattress. you spread your legs, and he hums at the sight of you, bare and willing.</p><p>he lowers himself, propping his forearms on either side of your head. you kept your feet planted firmly on the mattress, even as he slides the tip of his cock along your entrance. your eyes flutter shut at the slow drag of him, and you dig your nails into his biceps. you are wet and ready, have been so for a long while, but you will not rush him. this is a moment to be cherished, to be mapped on the inside of your eyelids so you can replay it every time you fall asleep in his arms.</p><p>his cock notches at the entrance of your cunt, and you let go of mingled sighs as he pushes into you slowly, allowing you a moment to adjust to his girth. you could come just from the feel of every ridge and stretch and pull.</p><p>pero sets an unhurried pace. his palms wander your chest, your stomach, your arms as he enters and retreats from your slick center. for your own part, you cannot keep your hands from his face. oh, how you missed his face! every line like a map of himself, each telling a different story. you think you missed his nose the most, with its interesting bend and harsh slope. it, among other things, is what makes him so distinct. you run the side of your finger along his nose and stutter out a breath when he hits a particularly deep spot.</p><p>pero drops his head to the curve of your neck, the pace increasing as the slow build of your orgasm rises. there’s nothing frantic about this moment, only earnest. still, you cling to his shoulders as you cant your hips back against his.</p><p>“i will tend our home,” pero mumbles all of a sudden.</p><p>you blink, adjusting to the dim light of the room as you open your eyes. it’s hard to see with pero shuddering over you as he does, but you can make out the rise and fall of his spine over his shoulder and his hips drawing back and forth against your core. you moan, wiggling yourself against his thickness.</p><p>“i will tend our home,” he says again, and you find it in you to nod in agreement. “i will tend the fields.”</p><p>you nod again and whisper, “yes,” urging him to continue.</p><p>“i fill give you children, watch your womb swell with my seed. you will hold them to your breast, and we will—<em>ngh</em>—we will raise warriors.”</p><p>“oh, <em>fuck</em>,” you gasp, coming undone in a rush of emotion at the thought of pero’s child suckling your breast. you do not shatter as you did before, but you ride the wave of your orgasm with shaking hips and tears in the corners of your eyes. you wrap your legs around his waist, urging the feeling to last as long as possible until your eyes seem to roll into the back of your head and you can milk him no longer.</p><p>pero is close too, but not close enough. he presses his palm beside your head and grabs your hip so he can drive a little harder into your spent cunt. “and one day—<em>mierda</em>—one day i will—will be buried by your side. even in eternity, i will not leave you again, <em>mi vida.</em>”</p><p>you run your hand down his cheek and shake your head, swallowing a whimper as he slams into your slick. “i trust you,” you whisper, and he comes with a guttural groan, his face pressed impossibly tight in the crook of your neck as his hips stutter against your pelvic bone.</p><p>for a moment, you lay spent. pero remains atop you, but even with his bulk, you do not mind. you are sweaty and sticky and sated, but he is home. you hold him tight and will the seed in your womb to plant, to make your house a proper home with little feet and high giggles. but even if that comes later, you are happy for the moment.</p><p>you brush a lock of sweat-matted hair away from pero’s forehead. “welcome home, husband.”</p><p>he kisses the tender spot behind your ear. “<em>tu eres mi hogar, mi esposa.”</em></p><p>the sweet words, whatever their meaning, make you smile, and you sink into your first restful sleep, your husband cocooned in your warmth and exactly where he belongs.</p>
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